Gotham Nights
by NovaPipping
Summary: Of all the people you could meet on a train...


The smell of the underground railway is distinct and unforgettable; the heat and density of the air, despite the late hour, is equally as formidable. Perhaps 'late' is not as appropriate a word as 'early' is to describe this hour. Another mildly packed show tonight. I still enjoyed it. I'm grateful for the work and the chance to follow my dream et cetera, et cetera. Gotham Theatre is a beautiful building and, while the train and walk home is long, I enjoy my midnight travels. Mostly. It's my time to think, to relish in the remnants of the adrenaline from performing.

The train is late, as usual. My head drops backwards against the wall as I sit, wrapped in my trench coat, on the platform bench, breathing in the stuffy surroundings. The guy leaning against the far wall at the end of the platform to my right, who's been waiting here as long as I have, shifts. His hands, similar to mine, are shoved deep into his pockets; his dark hood is pulled far down over his face as he looks at his feet. We're the only two here, apart from the homeless man around the corner, back at the bottom of the escalators. It's a typical turnout for this time of night. Well, this time of morning.

A screech and a light approach from the depthless tunnel, heralding the arrival of the train. The doors open and I amble inside, a few steps behind hoodie-guy. I slump into a seat. He remains standing, leaning against a pole. This may be a long ride.

I like his jeans. They're a nice colour and the material looks comfortable. A kind of deep blue.

I suddenly realise how it might look if he glanced down and followed my eye-line. I look away. A moment passes.

He breathes in and exhales audibly. A dull, metallic thud sounds and I slightly look in his direction to see he's slapped a hand around the bar and is leaning away from it. He slides slowly around the pole as if it were a lamppost in a musical. He's evidently bored. That makes two of us.

I don't know if it's because I'm in a slightly good mood, or the confidence hasn't worn off from the performance, or I am genuinely bored out of my mind, but I stand and casually step towards another pole, the one closest to me. I raise my hand to it, grip it, then dramatically drop my body weight into a swing, finishing with an inclined look towards hoodie-guy, the both of us still hanging from our poles.

He pulls himself upright, intrigued by my contribution, and pauses. He raises both of his hands to the horizontal bar above his head and pulls himself upwards until his chin is in line with his hands and the bar. His legs are beautifully straight, toes pointed, and I appreciate this attention to technique. He holds his position for a few seconds before lowering himself impressively slowly back to the floor.

I grip the bar above my head but twist so I'm facing away from him. With a little prayer that my upper body strength still exists, I haul myself upwards. Bringing my knees up to my head, I post my feet through the gap between the bar and the ceiling, push my legs through and uncoil myself until I can see hoodie-guy again, now upside-down. I release my hands with a final flourish and thank goodness I'm wearing trousers. As I feel my blood begin to gather in my head, I see him silently clap me. I bring my hands back to the bar and flip myself over to return to the ground and give a slightly wobbly bow to my lone spectator.

But he his rising to the unspoken challenge. Both hands are gripping the vertical pole and suddenly he's lifting himself off the ground, his body parallel to the floor, as if he were a flag. He dismounts gracefully and leans against the pole, arms folded. I sigh pointedly as I give him his rightfully deserved applause. He responds with a couple of mini-bows and melodramatic feigns of humility.

Breaks screech as we arrive at a stop, and the slowing train causes the winner of our little showcase to stumble forwards mid-bow. I can't help but grin. I also realise that this is my stop and as I head for the door, I turn to give my fellow passenger a wave farewell, only to realise he's disembarking also. As he steps onto the platform after me, he gives me a one-sided smile with raised brows from beneath his hood and a shrug of his shoulders as if to say, "Heh, who knew?"

We walk in silence up to the surface and seem to be heading in the same direction until, at the cross roads, he turns to go right towards the centre of the city. I'm heading left. I give him a small smile and a single wave, which he returns, and we part ways.

The streets are quiet as I walk back to my apartment and I listen to my footsteps echo off the paving as I pass through the orange shafts of light. Later, as I'm sliding into bed and switching my bedside lamp off, I realise I'm still smiling.


End file.
